


See you in a new light

by Fictio



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Actually accidental humor, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Armie's moustache is a hero in this, Attempt at Humor, By buzz lightyear, Cockblocking, Fluff, Horny timothee, M/M, Plumbing issues, Romance, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-02-07 20:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21464413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictio/pseuds/Fictio
Summary: But I've been breaking the rule for some time. I can't stop staring at his face, can't help but notice the blond tint in his brown moustache, his soft yet dry lips, the stretch of his mouth. It's like I've been assigned the job to make a map of his face – I've studied the spread of his mouth, the distance between his lower lip and his prominent chin, the sides of his strong nose that slope away from the narrow top and the diameter of the hairy arc that resides on top of his upper lip.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman, Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 188
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

We crossed paths more than once – on the way to work, back from work, taking out the trash, picking up mail and everything in between. I don't know if it is purely coincidence or he's timing it. I am going about my day doing mundane stuff and suddenly he'll appear, directly in my vision. We'll both look up at the same time, make eye contact and then lower our eyes. No smile or lift of the lips exchanged.

One time, we walked side by side, but only for a split second. I was wearing my headphones, music loud enough for everyone around me to guess what I was listening to – It was a pleasant morning, the sun was peeking through the leaves, painting a mesh of sunlight and shadows on the path in front of me – I was in a great mood. I don't know how but when he drew closer and appeared next to me – I knew, I knew it was him without turning my head. It was the closest we had ever been. 

I lowered the volume of the song instinctively, our steps matched and I could hear the friction produced between the ground and his feet. I turned towards him but only slightly – The curious tilt of head when someone comes up to you on the footpath, invading your personal space momentarily. He overtook me and stepped out of my space, my bubble. I was left to stare at his back, the same t-shirt he always wears and his washed out jeans. Though the split second was enough for me – I glanced at his face and noticed something unusual – his moustache. I slowed down as he disappeared into the crowd, thinking to myself – 'it looks hideous. He looks like an 80s pornstar.'

I went back to my long strides, headphones back on full volume.

* * *

I don't know his name. I don't know what he sounds like. I've never seen him smile.

I am curious beyond words. Though I don't understand why, he isn't my type and he is definitely much _ much _ older. A lot of things he does, are an instant turn off for me – The man wears the same clothes for days and sometimes I've seen him in flip flops outside our building. 

And obviously, I don't like his fucking moustache. 

I am, for sure, not attracted to him...still I can't help but think about him sometimes. It's obvious that he's from the same apartment complex and that our working hours match. I know he has a dog – one time we accidentally met in the lift – he was getting out, taking the dog to the park and I was getting in, carrying take-out for an early dinner. Apart from these random facts, i don't know anything about the man – his name, his age, which apartment he lives in, where he works, what he does for a living, what his dog's name is and why he has that hideous moustache.

These accidental encounters have left me wondering about him alot. He seems like a mystery to me – a large man living by himself (and his dog). No sign of a wife or a girlfriend. 

I say he has no wife but I've never been able to take a peek at his hand. Maybe he really is married and I just never encountered the pair together. Maybe they are a perfect couple and she's a homemaker. They have a cute dog and are trying for a child or maybe they are pregnant and that's why I've never seen his wife.

Or maybe I am thinking too much about this.

* * *

It's been a month – The moustache remains. 

In the past, whenever we crossed each other, we would never maintain eye contact, a flutter of eyelashes, up and down, ignoring any recognition and removing oneself from any formalities. Our eyes would never linger over the other. A glance was enough, it was polite. It was a rule.

But I've been breaking the rule for some time. I can't stop staring at his face, can't help but notice the blond tint in his brown moustache, his soft yet dry lips, the stretch of his mouth. It's like I've been assigned the job to make a map of his face – I've studied the spread of his mouth, the distance between his lower lip and his prominent chin, the sides of his strong nose that slope away from the narrow top and the diameter of the hairy arc that resides on top of his upper lip.

He catches me staring sometimes, it's the usual – he'll gulp and his face will turn red. 

I've never seen a man blush so easily. I like it. I _ really _like it.

* * *

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon and I've finally gotten over the hangover after partying last night. I cherish these moments – alone and all by myself. 

After having lunch – a bowl of cereal and milk – I retreat to my bed. I snuggle my comforter and press my nose in my pillow, allowing my mind to drift off to a place I rarely visit. Imagining a certain someone wrapped around me, his hands around my waist and his lips on my neck. I turn around and nudge his nose with my own. His moustache tickles me when I try to kiss him. 

Tangled in my blanket and in my day dreaming, I miss the doorbell ringing. Someone knocks loudly on the door to get my notice.

_ Could it be? Is he on the door? _

I get up and notice the situation in my pants. On my dresser, there is an oversized hoodie. I could use it to hide my erection. 

_ Or I could just go out like this? _

Now that would be interesting. I imagine what would happen - Will he let go of all his hesitation? Will he try to touch me? Or will he stand his ground and avert his eyes, making a stupid excuse to see me but not being able to make a move?

At last I decided to cover myself with the hoodie. _ And _ it was a good decision because opposite me, outside my door, the plumber is standing restlessly, impatiently checking his watch. I must have taken my sweet time.

He asks me, "your kitchen sink is clogged?"

One line question. Even a shorter answer.

"Yes."

I guide him to the kitchen and stand in the living room awkwardly, waiting for this to be over. I wanna go back to my bed and enjoy the rest of the afternoon. The door to the master bedroom is left ajar and it's calling out to me — the warmth of the sheets, the fluff of the pillows, the slight cold of November, the feeling of timelessness and the thoughts of a lover.

* * *

It's almost been an hour and the plumber hasn't fixed the damn sink yet.

_ Why do I have to put up with this? _

I am ready to tell him to leave and come back tomorrow when I hear loud barking downstairs. Someone is trying to keep the dog quiet. A deep and syrupy voice echoes in the building, "Archie! Stand down. Archie! Bad dog!" I leave the damn plumber in the kitchen and step outside my front door to stand on the top of the staircase.

He lives down the floor. Just down the fucking floor. Across the flat that's directly below me. How come I never knew? This can't be real!

As usual, I openly stare at the man without making any noise. This is the first time I've heard his voice and I am taking it all in, storing it in my brain – analysing it's quality, it's texture, it's heaviness and imagining myself on the receiving end of dirty, _ dirty _ words from the said voice.

_ Shit. I am getting hard again. _

As if he's heard me, Mr. Pornstauche looks up to lock eyes with me. I lick my lips and refuse to back down from his stare. His blue eyes look so enticing, his hair is fluffed up, his mouth is slightly open – looking soft and inviting. The moment stretches between us, I feel dizzy from all the attention, from his eyes on me. The handrail I am leaning on, is gonna break apart, gently so, allowing me to fall into his arms. 

I will be closer to him, much, much closer. And I will be able to touch him and he will be able to…

"Mr. Chalamet, I don't think I can help you."

The plumber shouts from somewhere inside my apartment, ruining the moment. I turn around quickly – I don't know how to say goodbye with my eyes.

The plumber meets me outside and he's drenched in water. He's saying something but I can't concentrate, I know that the man downstairs hasn't left, he's still standing there. But for what? For another staring contest? To say a few words? Maybe invite me to his home? 

I just can't wait. I know something's coming. It will be such a let down if I have to go back to my room to wank in silence.

I am forced out of my thoughts when a voice from downstairs calls out to me, "Do you need any help with that?" 

My body feels alert. My mind goes into overdrive. This is the first time Mr. Moustache has spoken to me – his eye fixed on me, his voice directed to me – asking me if I need his help, concomitantly letting himself in my home.

"Yes, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recklessfreakofnature on tumblr :)  
Edit - added the tags for Oliver/Elio Perlman because these two are honestly interchangeable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s quite a shame. He doesn’t know how much I want him. That I would allow his hands to explore my body, to slip inside my hoodie and claim my tiny waist, all while we stand here, shamelessly, to be caught by anyone and everyone.

For the longest time, I have to wait at my doorstep. He needs his equipment and his tools. He needs to polish. He needs to prepare. 

I am quite impatient today. Leaning on the wooden door, playing with the drawstrings of my hoodie, occasionally glancing downstairs and then inside my own home. Everything – the clock(don't think about  _ cock!) _ on the wall, the TV screen, the leftovers on the table, the half read books on my shelf and the stupid plastic buzz lightyear (that came with a happy meal) on the kitchen counter – mock me with their lifeless stare. 

With a click, the door downstairs closes and my body comes alive. I don’t know how to stand, don’t know what to do with my hands. My eyes are focused on the bottom of the staircase and surely, the man appears. He slowly makes his way up top, his body getting bigger and bigger, his gaze becoming bolder and bolder as he stares at my hoodie clad waist. His eyes move up to meet mine and again, the shy, hesitant neighbor is back - he withdraws his eyes and nervously stands in front of me.

It’s quite a shame. He doesn’t know how much I want him. That I would allow his hands to explore my body, to slip inside my hoodie and claim my tiny waist, all while we stand here, shamelessly, to be caught by anyone and everyone.

I resolve not to move from my fortress. He will have to conquer me, will have to press against my body to go inside. Casually, I extend my hand and tilt my head to steer him into my flat. I expect him to shy away, to hesitate and ask me to move, to try and defuse the tension by awkwardly making a joke about his large body not being able to fit in but he surprises me. He follows through, treads the fortress slowly and steps inside the safety parameter. Oh how the tables have turned! He’s the one with the upperhand! He watches with delight as my pupils dilate to accommodate the lack of light and his large undeniable presence. For a few seconds, I can’t breathe properly, can’t help but pull my eyes from his direct stare. 

It’s good to know he performs well in close combat. I’ll be more careful next time.

He finally steps in the house with a smirk on his face. It’s a new expression. I’ve never seen it before. Didn’t know one could even smirk with a god awful moustache. It should have lessened his smugness significantly but here we are, the bastard looks sexy being self satisfied.

I watch as he enters my living room. It’s an unnerving feeling, I never would have imagined him inside my home.

_ Well, I hope I can get him inside me soon. _

His back looks like a canvas for love bites. His hair is soft, I wonder if he will let me pull it? My eyes travel from curve of his incredible ass to his thin ankles. And what do we have here? No flip flops! He is wearing shoes...with the heel poking out. Did he really, in a rush, failed to put on his shoes properly? I feel myself grinning, the tension slowly slips away.

“So where are you having problems?”

_ I can only think of bad places, doctor. I want to do bad stuff. _

Probably too early for role-play. Oh God, I am enjoying this too much. He sees it on my face, he’s thinking that I am mocking him - his spirit deflates and he is back to his shy self. 

“Umm… If you don’t want me to help, It’s fine. I can give you a number to…”

“No! No. I don’t think I can handle another plumber, if you have time then please help me.”

I am not one for begging but I don’t know what I am willing to do, for this man’s attention.

I see the hesitance on his face, he doesn’t want to question much, doesn’t want to assume his place in my home so he awkwardly stands and waits for me to guide him to the kitchen - which is directly in front of him. This is much more awkward than I had imagined. Then again, my imaginations are mostly bizarre.

Stepping closer, I steer him around with a gentle touch on his elbow. This is the first time we have ever touched. I try to keep my emotions at bay, I don’t wanna freak him out more than he already has. To my horror, Buzz lightyear is still stationed on my kitchen counter. Casually, I grab it from the counter and when I am sure he’s not looking, I throw it in the living room. Thankfully it doesn’t make much noise.

“There. I don’t know what’s happening. The plumber tried to fix the clog but he …” I pause, I don’t know what happened, I was out there staring at you, “I am not sure what he did.” Lightly scratching my scalp, I step aside so he can start working. I realise how not-sexy this excuse was, as he places his tools carefully on my kitchen slab and takes a look at the mess. But then, he uncuffs his shirt sleeves and rolls them up to his elbow. His hands are strong and his fingers, my God, his fingers are so long! His eyes are focused and in the mid-day shimmery sunlight, they shine and appear sea-like. 

I have a sudden urge to dive in a pool, to swim in a river and to feel the ocean lapping at my feet.

Watching him work is another pleasure. I know it’s weird or rude to just stand there and stare but I can’t help it! And I am sure he doesn’t mind either. I offer him a beer, he declines. I offer him some Gatorade, he decline. Juice? No. Coffee? No. Water? Actually, yes.

The afternoon feels so nice with the curtains allowing the faintest of light in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator, the clicking of tools and  _ him _ \- casually fixing my plumbing, drinking water and just being there. It feels awfully domestic. Forcing a conversation doesn’t feel necessary. Stolen glances here and there, sneaky touches on the back and upper arm, small and shy smiles and plenty of ‘hmms’ in response to polite enquiries. 

I’ve been thinking about one thing - I haven’t asked his name and he hasn’t asked mine. And I don’t want to know, not right now. Maybe I want it to be a mystery, to uncover some other time. I don’t want everything to happen all at once, where’s the fun in that?

Finally, the clog gets fixed. He is exhausted from the effort - from constantly having to bend down and get back up and to squat to see the pipe below. I, however, thoroughly enjoyed it. He has a nice fucking ass. 

“I think it’s done. Here, try it.”

“Oh. yeah, I’ll…” I completely forgot that plumbing was a hero in this ― the excuse I used to get him in my house(wait wasn't he the one to offer his  _ services? _ ) I just have to turn the tap on and off, why do I suddenly feel so inadequate?

“Yeah it works.”

“Good.” Nodding his head, once and twice, first in the direction of the tap and then in the direction of the tool, he looks ready to leave. 

“Do you want to eat something? You’ve worked hard...” I offer, like an idiot. I don’t have anything.

“Yeah sure.” He smiles, relieved for some more time with me. 

I like his smile - much better than his smirk.

________________

Rummaging through the fridge, I find some leftover brownies. Quickly after checking if he’s not looking in the general direction of the kitchen, I sniff the brownies. They smell...weird but they don’t look decayed. As I bring him the brownies in the living room, I try to remember when the fuck did I buy or order brownies? I don’t have a sweet tooth. 

But apparently, he does.

“Oh! I love brownies!”

“Do you wanna sit on the ground? the carpet feels real good…” Why do I have to suggest the most stupid ideas?!

“Sure!”

_ Oh Thank God! He doesn’t think I am some weirdo. _

“Wait. I’ll bring back beer for you.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Rushing, I bring back two bottles of beer as he eats one of the brownies. Shyly, I slide next to him on the ground, I see he has pushed the table to make space for our legs.

“These are good!”

“Thanks.” I take a bite of the brownie and frown. There is something wrong...I can’t figure it out. Oh well, it tastes good! I take a bite and another and so does he. He is a noisy eater, a messy one too - some crumbs get stuck in his stache. And I can't help but stare at that hideous  _ thing _ . The longer I stare, the more I start feeling light headed. Everything feels hazy but in a good way. Giggling, I crawl closer to him.

“You have brownie in your mustache.”

“What?” He laughs in my face. 

“Brownie mustache!” 

_ Shit. It’s weed. Hash Brownies.  _

_ Last week party. Ansel fucking Elgort gave me some. _

“Oh! Sorry!” He laughs harder now - dimples popping out. But still doesn’t do anything to clean his stache. So obviously I volunteer to do it, I raise my hand and bring it closer to his face. Watch his eyes widen as I almost touch his lips. Hear him gulp when I brush off the crumbs and  _ accidently  _ let my hand caress his upper lip. Our eyes lock and it’s back, the sweet, sweet, tension. 

I let my fingers explore his mouth, innocent at first - only slightly touching the lips. But then I get bolder, I replace my forefinger with my thumb, gently pressing down on his lower lip and then finally pushing it in. His tongue greets me and I melt on the shitty carpet from target. He moves closer, puts my hand down - I know it’s coming, he’s going to kiss me. Shifting forward, he begins by placing his hand on the ground near my hip, an anchor of sorts to …

“Ouch!”

And again the spell is broken.

He retreats his hand and looks accusingly at the attacker - The plastic buzz lightyear with the God awful smile and the lifeless stare. I close my eyes and try not to scream.

_ I fucking hate this. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want you and you want me. Why are we waiting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comparatively a short chapter.  
I am not sure if I like it but I rarely like what I write so I hope you enjoy it. Thanks.

Long lashes flutter against tan skin. A slow stroke of brush on a golden brown canvas. When he looks down, lowers his eyes, bites his cheek and nervously shifts from foot to foot, my heart skips a beat. I can write a fifty page thesis on his movements, his unconscious habits, his wavering confidence, his show of discomfort. Seeing him squirm incites something wild in me. So does him being dominant.

We are standing outside our door after the almost kiss. Everything seems so much more awkward. The high is far gone, the hesitance is back on. I wish I had more of those brownies, he and I, we would have left this barren land of uncertainty, would have flew like a kite and met on cloud nine. I imagine, by now, we would be tussling in my bed, removing our clothes, exploring the expanse of each other's bodies. Daylight will end and turn into dawn, dawn into night and night into dusk. Both us unaware of the passage of time.

I lick my lips. _Fuck_! I can imagine it so well.

“So... I'll be leaving.” He points his long finger in the general direction of the stairs.

“Umm… do you want those brownies?”

Mentally I transport to an unknown land – a football field. Ten football players, all hurling towards me. They push me on the ground and start kicking me in the stomach. All of them, all at once. Their faces feels familiar and suddenly I realise, it's me. I am fucking kicking myself in the nuts for being a fucking idiot.

“I... I don't think so. Thanks.” He would very much like to say no to those brownies, Timmy.

Another kick on my stomach.

“Uh. Yeah. Cool.”

I keep standing there. My body inclined at 45 degrees, with my face closer to his and my feet far away from him – ready to run into my bedroom. I don't know what I am waiting for. Nor does he.

“I…” Shifting from one foot to the other, he refuses to go back. Somehow stuck on my face, my mouth. And how can I leave him hanging? Lips open, tongue poking out, I give him a show. Watch him squirm some more and then decide to up a level of torture by shaking my hair so they fall on my face. I know exactly how I look – not to sound like a narcissist – my dark hair against my pale smooth skin. The pink mouth and green eyes. The perfect combination for seducing innocent men like him.

My gaze shifts from his pretty face – the soft face with spikes of hairs here and there, the fat chunk of mustache on top of his lips and the marshmallow mouth – From his neck to his large feet. My body reacts again – my teeth clatter with such violence, hands clutching at the drawstrings, feet ready to dash – having an intense urge to pull him forward, to fuck with delicacy and modesty.

I want you and you want me. Why are we waiting?

Just when my hand reaches upto him and when he takes a step forward, his phone chimes. A furrow of brow, a downward tilt of lips – that's all the attention we give to his cellphone. He steps closer and I grab his shirt.

_ Oh fuck. It's finally happening. _

Our bodies are perfectly lined. Every inch of mine is touching his. My heart is beating out of my chest. In this goddamn hoodie I feel so overheated, so covered, so stupid. For a second we just breathe, trying to overcome this intense desire, to calm down, to take it all in. His face has turned so red, it's almost funny. Seems like the blood is flowing in the wrong direction.

He grabs my waist and I think, this is it. This is fucking it. Now he will throw me over his shoulder – his dominant side coming back to play – and carry me to my bedroom. When his body collides with the bed, his nose buried in my sheets, he'll realise what I've been doing. The sweat, the smell, the shame – it never really goes away.

Will he punish me? Will he laugh at me?

I don't know. I can't wait to find out.

When his lips are ready to touch mine, we hear a voice, not far away, “Mr. Chalamet?”

He pushes me away – which _ rude – _and coughs. I don't know what for? I don't know why people start coughing when they are trying to cover something. Like it's not gonna hide your red face nor your obvious hard-on.

“You didn't pay me.” The plumber materialises from thin air and demands money.

_ Well, you dick, you should've asked before. _

“I was drenched in water so I completely forgot. But you should have paid me…”

_ Argh. This is so dumb. Why does he want to argue now?! _

With anything but discretion, I adjust myself angrily and turn around to go look for some case.

“No, wait.” Mr. Moustache grabs my hand, ever so gently and finds some notes from the back of his pockets.

_ Damn. His pants are so tight. _

They discuss money but my lustful eyes are lost on those pants and those hands. It's one thing to see him. But to _ see _him, is another. This close and with this much freedom. To stare and to leer.

Oh how the night changes.

His pants move away from me as the voice of the plumber dies down. I look up and frown, he is moving away with those pants. Where are you going sir?

“I should go.”

“No. Stay.”

Fuck everything. Fuck the buzzlight year and fuck the plumber... No wait. Don't fuck them. Fuck _ me _.

His expression changes and suddenly, he looks like a boring white man with a stupid fucking mustache. 

No. Don't. Don't pity me. Don't look at me like I am some horny teenager who can't keep it in his pants. Don't look down at me. Don't sigh, don't act like you don't want me.

“I am gonna go.”

“Fine. Go.”

Regret flashes in his eyes. It fills the blue of his iris. But he can't change my mind now – I am irritated and horny. I would stomp my feet on the ground like a petulant child and won't allow you in my room.

“Hmm?” I wait for him to go. I want to watch it happen. Say no to me and perish.

He nods and turns around. Takes a step towards the stairs and then another. I watch him intently, not knowing what I want. He turns occasionally in his slow stride to gawk at me. To see if I've closed the door and turned back.

Finally when he descents down the stairs _ and _ I am ready to close the door, I hear his distinct syrupy voice, loud enough for my neighbors to hear,

“Smile. The next time you see me.”

And with a barely audible, “I am tired of keeping mine at bay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Smile. The next time you see me." I repeated those words a few times. Sometimes in his voice. Or a juvenile impression of his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes.

I remember the warmth. The heat between our bodies when we stood so close. The furnace inside my heart and the lava in my veins. The way he's large body almost covered mine, hide me from the outside world. It's a heady feeling, to imagine ravenous things with someone and then have them come true. It felt like an out of body experience, like I was peeking through my conscious mind and watching it all happen. Later, much later, I would curse myself to be this stupid, to be angry at his hesitancy but for now, I bloat myself with resentment and fury. A different kind of lava flows within me.

His words left a mark on me. I keep thinking about them. It's wasn't exactly Shakespeare but somehow it meant something, for us. Words have always meant something to me – the way we didn't talk and avoided each other's eyes, I knew the day he uttered a word to me, said something momentous, he would have my heart. 

"Smile. The next time you see me." I repeated those words a few times. Sometimes in his voice. Or a juvenile impression of his voice.

Between two people, there exists a world. And this world is connected by a bridge of words, some memorable for one, some for both. The first spoken words, the last voiced one's, a song lyric, an inside joke, a term of endearment, typos on a message, the name of the favorite drink, the name of the frequented bar, the last amount you borrowed, the last time you met together, words of encouragement, words of wisdom, words of outrage and words of love. So what does he want with me? Is this his way of saying he wants to build a world with me?

"Smile. The next time you see me."

* * *

The next few weeks I ignore the fuck out of him, all while daydreaming about his soft, soft mouth and his hot hard body. His words still ring in my ears and I hope the sound of me slamming the door in his face, rings in  _ his _ ears. I still seek his shadow, the sound of his steps, the sight of his back. I linger around when I see him. I watch him from the corner of my eyes.

It's a choreographed dance between us. He tries to catch my attention, tries to maintain that eye contact. His attempt at a smile amuses me to no end. I usually steer my gaze away from him, keep my face neutral and stride past him. And that's a thing I've also noticed – the way we walk, it's quite similar – the long and speedy steps with hands in pockets. The way he slouches just like me. I like to think that it's a ridiculous and clumsy habit for me but on him, it looks endearing. I don't know why I find this giant man with a furry mustache so adorable.

Most of the time, I am zoned out, obsessively imagining us together. My friends ask me what's wrong, I say nothing, shrug and go back to whatever crap Netflix movie they're playing. I can't say I was too busy picturing the characters on the scene as me and him, can't say that the movie was so shit that I started writing another screenplay, tailored just for us.

I've never had a crush on someone so intense, so severe that it leaves me unsatisfied to no end. That everyday is a struggle because I want to see him, want to have his eyes on me. On a windy evening, I found myself standing outside our apartment complex, near the trash bins, hoping he would come down and I would give him his  _ smile _ . I planned my outfit and all so when he didn't come down after an hour, I left but once in awhile, went back to the staircase, just to check. I didn't see him that day and the next day. Can't say that it wasn't a disappointment.

I don't like roaming around his floor. I fear if he caught me, he would think I am some kind of freak. Hopefully, not more than I already am.

* * *

Nothing significant happens for a while because I seek him out and then ignore him. I want him to chase me around, to ask me out, to invite me to his bed. It shouldn't be this difficult. But over time it becomes the convention, I get used to the shiftlessness and don't expect anything from him.

So imagine my surprise when I came back from an audition (successful if I may add) and he's standing outside my doorstep, looking dashing and oh so charming in gym shorts, dirty shoes, and a sweaty nirvana t-shirt. He must have been waiting for awhile because there's no sweat on his forehead and his neck, just the residuals on his t-shirt.

"Umm...Hi!" The 'hi' went really high-pitched but I ignore it in favor of my prince charming finally communicating with me. Prince charming clad in gym shorts that make his booty pop.

"Hi." I swear to God if he asks me a dumb question about plumbing I will…

"Would you like to go on a date with me?"

"Ahhh…I...umm...I" a plethora of expressions go over my face, you can imagine me producing each syllable like an idiot.

Pathetic really. I've been whining about his lack of endeavors, his reticence, and his unease. But when he does make a move, I have nothing to say. I can only turn into mush and blabber shit.

"I am sorry...I didn't introduce myself."

Oh, God. I am gonna come. 

"Armie Hammer, I live downstairs. And I would really like to take you out. Likely today. Maybe dinner because it's evening already. I...I am sorry, I am assuming you've said yes...I…"

"Yes!" I almost shout, "umm...dinner date works fine." I close my eyes and wish everything to be over soon because if he stands in front of me any longer, literally being charming, I would combust and lose control over myself.

"Ok. I will see you later." He smiles. And obviously, he has a dimple. 

I try to return the  _ smile  _ but end up half cringing and half smirking. 

Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.

Concern fills his eyes as he sees me blinking and  _ smiling _ , "Are you okay?"

"Tired. Just tired." Apparently, I am only able to speak in monosyllables. 

"Okay. Sure. I'll just…" I turn to watch him as he leaps on the stairs and honestly, I can't figure out if he's excited about the date or he really wants to get away from me.

"Armie?" The name rolls off my tongue like butter on toast. Like ice on glass. Like lube on...

"Yeah?" He answers from where he's standing outside his door.

"Give me your phone number."

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smile unfurls on my face. His face mirrors mine in an instant. I stretch out my hand, grab his arm, just for the sake of touching and ask him where we are supposed to go

"So you're going on a date with the American dream from the 60s"

"No," I say no simply because I don't know the American dream from the 60s. There is some Parisian blood in me, brother, "Just help me out with the outfit dude."

Ansel on the other line just snorts, "Wear whatever you want, Timmy. I don't think he'll care."

"Shut up, asshole."

I hang up the phone and look at my outfit once again, I am wearing a simple white t-shirt with a black blazer and tight black jeans. Wondering again if the skinny jeans makes my ass look good or just highlight my equally skinny legs.

My date is supposed to pick me up. It's not much knowing he lives downstairs but whatever. Everything about this feels very old school. When he came to my door this evening, I imagined he'll say something stupid and then I'll have enough and push him inside my flat. We'll fuck. Quite passionately, if I may add, and after that...well after that, I haven't thought. All the details of our ravenous night I had written down but the morning after still seemed like an eternity away. In my defense, who imagines these things anyway? Especially when they don't know anything about the hunk in their dreams!

Doubt clouds my mind – do I really want this? Or Am I just looking for a one night stand? Someone to obsess with, someone to make my nonexistent love life interesting.

I pull out my phone and open Instagram. Type Armie Hammer in the search bar. I still have time to do some stalking.

Again, I don't know what I was expecting but it was definitely not this. My unibrow lift up high on my forehead and I feel myself frowning – he's an artist of sorts, there are pictures of paintings, graffiti, murals, and private art shows all over his page, apart from the usual friend, family and look-at-me-drinking-beer posts. He has some weird 3D shit too – with human body parts and ropes and wait...is that BDSM? I am sure there's a word for it but I can't recall…

I click on his following list and come up with more weird shit. He follows a lot of art accounts, most have a bizarre aspect to them. But there are few models in the platter of art. And by models I mean nude models, wearing kinky clothes and bound in ropes and silk. 

_ Fuck. _

My palms sweat and I realize my heart's beating faster. And it's not the good kind, I am kind of scared to meet this guy. What if he has a sex dungeon?? What kind of BDSM acts will he ask me to perform? And wait, is he dating any of these models because no way in hell I stand a chance with them in line!

There's a knock on my door and I realize I've been doing this for an hour. I've wasted an _ hour _ finding information about him that he might possibly bring up on the date – definitely not the kinks – but other stuff like his job, his friends, the last concert he went to, his favorite restaurant, his birthday, his height in exact centimeters, his t-shirt collection, his stupid fixation with meat, his weird art style, his political views and his Republican mother(yes I checked her account too). 

Now I have to act like I don't know anything about him. 

_ There's still a chance you don't. It's just social media. _

Right. Okay. Brushing my hands once on my thighs, I get up and walk towards the door.

* * *

His hair is soft. Unbearably so. I want to run my hands through it. It looks like he took a hot bath and came out all fluffy and cute. His eyes too, somehow resemble the softness. A sense of relief floods me, it doesn't hit me like a storm but like a wave of slow tide on the shore. The color of the sea really matches his eyes (and no it's not supposed to be the other way around)

He trimmed his mustache – I am not ashamed to admit that I know its exact texture, geometry, expanse, and density and that I can tell when he's changing it.

A smile unfurls on my face. His face mirrors mine in an instant. I stretch out my hand, grab his arm, just for the sake of touching and ask him where we are supposed to go.

* * *

Walking side by side shouldn't be this intimate. Maybe it feels like this because we never matched out strides, he always outmatched me, always went past me. Now with every step, he takes a conscious effort to walk with me, to stay with me. It shouldn't feel like this. But it does and I can't stop this feeling spreading in my stomach, my chest, my hands, my fingertips.

It's New York and nobody takes a single glance at us. But I hope they did. I want people to be jealous of us – two guys walking side by side with their arms almost touching. 

The destination is barely a 15 minutes walk. The whole time we try to push people and stay close together. I have an urge to hold his hand but then I will come across as too needy so I manage with a hand on the small of his back. When I return that hand back to the base station, he places his on my shoulder. 

I try to remember his face before the mustache but all in vain(the insta pics feel like someone else, to be honest). His strong jaw, his soft marshmallow lips, his prominent chin – everything feels like a part of a picture, the landscape is incomplete without the sun, his pornstachue. His skin also feels taut in the streetlight, all sharp edges and hard jaw. He shaved blotches of hair here and there and it looks very clean and suave. It's honestly just too much skin for me to kiss and I can't wait to go back to his apartment or mine.

* * *

We don't have to wait for a table outside, apparently, he has a reservation. When I ask how did he manage on such a short notice, he just shrugs and smiles, leaving me to decide if he was confident that I'll say yes to the date or just stupid enough to risk booking a table for two at an expensive restaurant. By the way, he mentioned it was his treat because he was the one who asked me out. I begin to think he's kind of old school but then his Instagram account flashes before my eyes and I quietly sit down.

Oh God. Shouldn't have thought about the ropes. The t-shirt feels too tight around my neck suddenly.

Conversation flows with the wine and ages like it too. I tell him about myself and keep my eyes on him, his reactions – the way he maintains eye contact, feels like its too much and takes another sip of the wine. Finds something interesting and leans just a bit forward in his seat. He lets me talk for a while, his hand slowly stretching out, away from his plate and towards mine, gently tapping the tabletop. The leg under the table has a propaganda of his own, at first, he accidentally knocks my leg – he's too tall, almost just legs so I ignore it. But then it happens again and he keeps his foot there, casually touching mine. I can't say I was unaffected when he touched me again, I paused for a second, felt like blushing. 

We then take turns talking. He tells me things about himself, his job and his dog. His friends and his flat. I find it strangely detached from his social media. When he talks about things that interest him, things that he's passionate about, I can't help but stare. He sounds utterly sincere, unlike my other dates. But mostly so eloquent that I feel embarrassed by my rambling at the start.

"There's this painting I've been working on. It's called _ the tear in reality. _It's almost done but I can't help but feel like something is missing. In my mind, there is this specific image that I want to reproduce but it never really comes out on the paper. Something else comes out and it's a product of my body, not my mind. It's still good if you ask my friends but I don't know… sorry, I am not sure if that makes any sense…"

"No. It does. It really does. I am an actor and I...our mind and bodies are the currency and product respectively. There has to be a sync between them but that's never really possible, is it? People talk about how acting is all about producing emotions from your experiences, how to master raw human feelings. And to elicit the unknown you have to have empathy, you have to imagine yourself in scenarios, to put your mind in this particular situation so that your body just knows how to react. But sometimes the mind knows you're acting but your body doesn't. And...honestly, I don't know where I am going with this." I laugh self consciously at my excitement to talk about something I can relate to. Something that's so niche and specific. To finally _ talk _ with someone instead of mindless flirting.

"I know exactly what you're talking about," he gives me this look I can't comprehend. Looks around the restaurant and then back at me with a sigh, "Looks like we are done. Wanna head out?" 

I look at the empty plates and the wine bottle. And although I would love to talk but Armie's leg has been pressing mine and his fingers have somehow made it to my wrist. He's slowly drawing circles on the thin vein there and I can't remember a single thing we've talked about tonight.

I look him in the eye and lick my lips, 

"Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeet!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am not burning, just simmering under the boiling point. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!! Too many life commitments to follow through :(

The walk back to the apartment complex is a silent one. With the moon above our heads, we move at first unhurriedly. Then our hands brush and he decides to sneak a touch, a gentle caress on my fingers, my palm and my inner wrist. I almost come to a halt. Shivers run up and down my body. Turning my head, I dare to take a look at him. His eyes are focused on my hands, zoomed in on the small scar on my left hand, ring finger. There are moments in your life that you never forget, the moments that are only yours, these seconds of life that you don’t share with anyone else. Years later when you ask him if he remembers he did that and get a blank confused look, you’ll smile and press a kiss on his forehead and go back to your moment. The soft and lost look in his gaze is something I'll always remember. I watch as he brings my hand up to his lips and presses a soft kiss on my scar. The world stops and shifts from its axis and I can't do anything but be pulled towards the magnetic center. As he puts my hand back, I claim his mouth. Caressing his neck, feeling him tremble from my ring, I slowly slide my lips on his. A new world opens up between us, right in the middle of the street as we kiss for a few more minutes.

The night could have gone to sleep and the city would be welcoming the dawn - I wouldn’t know any of it. Later I would remember feeling lost in his kiss, I swear I felt sunlight on my neck, saw bright light behind my eyelids like fireworks.

I press a gentle kiss on his cheek and press my mouth near his ear, "The mustache was tickling me slightly." Giggle and get back on my feet.

The rest of the journey is filled with smiles and this feeling of content, tranquility and this sense of sedation – like we've taken a drug, inhaled something soporific or eaten some hash brownies.

My fingers are still itching to touch him, my lips are ready to bite that soft mouth. But I feel calm. The anticipation is under my skin but it's dormant and it's gradually drifting to different territories inside my body. I am not burning, just simmering under the boiling point. 

* * *

We are waiting for the lift. It seems stuck on floor 14. I am never in the mood for small talk but with him, it doesn't seem so bad. Or maybe I just want to hear more of his husky voice.

"You work in a studio? For your art and stuff?"

"Art and stuff," He brings his hands and circles it around his lower lip, trying to hide a smile, "Yeah. I work at a studio. I like to keep things separate. In order. Besides, I've made a mess of my workroom. All my ideas and references, everything that comes to my mind ends up on the wall, the floor…"

"So you work from Nine to five?" I've noticed his schedule. How we  _ accidentally _ go out to work at the same time and come back at the same time.

And he's not stupid. He sees through my barely concealed motives in questioning him about his working hours.

"Yup. Nine to five." 

He's making that face again. Smiling while his face goes red. His tongue dances around his perfect set of teeth, poking his canines. He’s a vampire, I swear to God.

I can't quite let it go – "I know a few rappers myself. Singer-Songwriters."

"Oh?" He asks, amused. The 'Do you?' is silent but I hear it.

"Yeah, and they say that creativity can't be disciplined. It comes and goes. You can't contain it between 9 to 5 or whatever schedule you're following." 

He's saved from answering as the lift comes down and both our heads turn in the direction of the light  _ ping! _ I walk forward without looking back. I can't keep the smug smile off of my face. 

I have caught you. We both know, don't we? I am silent but I won't let you off the hook. I will remove layers and layers of your gentlemanly act till you're stripped to nothing but the primal animal you are. I will not hesitate to bring our history, our nonverbal interactions, the eye fucking. The inevitable is near. We’ll soon be fucking in my bed. All of this is just elaborate foreplay - the date, the kiss on the street, the bashful smiles - with you and me, whatever we do, in whatever sequence, we will end up in bed. 

The lift is deserted. That god awful music is playing again but after a while, even that sounds sensual to my ears. We face the doors and keep our hands to ourselves. As we are lifted higher and higher, my body gets hotter and hotter, the temperature rising just from the anticipation. I try to distract myself by talking,

"You're kind of old-school, huh? You believe in date first and…"

Honestly, I don’t know what I was gonna say but it definitely was not this. I wait for his response. 

"And fuck second," He smirks, "yeah."

“Good to know we are on the same page.”

I hope we can have something meaningful in the morning. I can’t gauge his feelings, not even mine. I guess I just have to wait.

“We’re here.” He looks at me with his soft eyes. Giving me an out from this night, speaking wordlessly, loudly - 'We don’t have to do this yet. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. I can go home, I don’t owe you anything.'

Is this because I was lost in my thoughts for a moment? Am I really that obvious? That easy to read?

My lips move first, then follows my body, almost colliding with him. The kiss is bruising, impatient and desperate. I wish I knew how to tell him how much I like him, wish I had the strength to confess but I don't. And for the time being, this will have to do.

We stumble in the lightened hallway, mouths crashing, teeth clanking, hands holding on desperately. He tries to move us in the direction of the door but I can't quite let go of his mouth. Good thing he's strong – he manhandles me and pulls away from me. Then only I realise we are on his floor, outside his apartment. His body is tense with desire as he tries to unlock the door. Behind him, I wipe my mouth and adjust my clothes – to maintain a sense of semblance, just in case someone comes out and catches us in the act. I am sure he has an image to uphold, he looks like the type – besides his fashion sense obviously – the kind of person who has everything together in public, the kind who would blush easily on any sexual suggestion even when they are quite freaky in bed. The kind who'll take his dog out to run, heartily greet the people working early morning shifts and then come back to his apartment block to say goodbye to his neighbors who are sending off their kids to school.

We enter his darkened apartment and I go for his neck. Fuck that thick neck! It looks so biteable, it makes my mouth water.

"Wait, wait." He whispers in the dark.

"Why?" I respond in an equally softer tone. 

"I want to see you."

Then he turns on the lights; and expectedly  _ and _ unexpectedly, I am graced by his whole self, all at once. 

'I want to see you.' How? Naked and exposed? Aroused and vulnerable? I feel weirdly out of wits, out of my comfort zone. I stand there stupidly while he takes off my jacket for me. Hangs it on the coat hanger. Proceeds to take off his own, all while standing in front of me, giving me a show. 

Stands in front of me and waits. When I can't do anything but open and close my mouth a few times, he takes charge and comes closer. It makes me so fucking nervous, asking myself – what's he gonna do next? Why are the lights on? Why aren't we in the bedroom yet? What if he sees my skinny body and doesn't like it?

Warm hands sneak under my t-shirt and all my thoughts go haywire. A moan follows from my lips and it's so sudden and unexpected that I feel myself getting more and more agitated. His hands start at my waist, caressing my ribs – and oh God, I had to bite my lips so hard not to moan again – and then stop at my armpits. Taking a breath, I anticipate his next move.

His hands follow the same journey, only backwards, painfully slow, and when they reach my waist, he lifts up the t-shirt and whispers a low, "up" 

My breath hitches as the t-shirt lifts up higher, leaving everything in full view. He takes it off and throws it on the sofa. 

"Baby."

I wish he would stop whispering. Stop looking at me like that. It makes my knees weak, leaves my heart pounding. My eyes are focused on his lips, his breathing and his stupid fucking mustache. I let go and close my eyes. Giving in. The feather-light touch of his lips on mine is so delicious. I can't keep up with his style, so sweet and slow, agonizingly slow. It shouldn't be this sexy – this lazy and unhurried kind of lovemaking. 

He backs away all of a sudden and I am left grasping at nothing, "what?" I ask him sullenly.

Nothing comes out of his mouth and I feel desperate enough to jump him again. But I don't have to do that because the very next moment, bending his knees a little, he grabs my waist and hoists me up.

"Fuck!"

I grab his shoulders for support. My hands shake at the sudden attack. He starts kissing my neck with a fervor, biting and licking, focusing on moles and freckles. My hands automatically find his hair and I do the obvious thing - pull. That gets his attention.

"Okay. Bedroom. Now."

"Yes. Yes! Yes!"

* * *

The rest is a blur. 

I only remember a few things – the freshly washed cotton bedsheet(I don't know why I was expecting something sexy like satin). The fluffy pillows which felt like heaven when I had to hide my face. The open window hidden by the closed curtain – sometimes in the night a breeze would rush in and leave me shivering and he would wrap himself around me instead of getting up and closing it. His chapped lips growing softer and softer after each kiss. His huge body pressed against mine. The dip in the bed when he drove inside me harder and faster. His vampire fucking tooth which almost tore my skin when he bit me all over. The same tooth that made a fucking cut on my lower lip. The way my jaw hurts now because he is so big, so fucking  _ big _ . The whir of the fan, the sound of cars screeching on the streets, the hum of the fridge in his kitchen and the flutter of the curtains – all blending with the sound of our harsh breathing, skin slapping against skin and our loud moans.

I wish I could put this night in a bottle and take it with me everywhere I go. Wish I could keep these love bites as tattoos on my skin, sleep on that fucking cotton bedsheet all week long. Simultaneously be on the other side of the window watching us and be there on the bed fucking him. 

Wish I could expand the night to an eternity. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it wasn't good enough. Smut is not my department. This story accidentally got sexually charged. I don't even know how to create tension 😵


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here have this short chapter before I figure out where I am going with this story🤠

It started pouring sometime around 2’oclock. The pitter-patter of the raindrop falling on the window woke me up. My eyes opened to a room unfamiliar, the smell of my pillow foreign and the cotton blend sheets under my palm alien. My lips brushed against the soft fabric, fingers coming up to my neck to poke the hickeys and eyes falling upon the man sitting on the wide window bay. And everything that happened hours before came back to me. It was incredible. His large body, soft mouth, hairy chest, strong hands, and his big cock. He was in complete control - he kept me guessing. Being pliant at once and dominant the next. Alternating between slow and hurried, soft and rough, amorous and lecherous. 

He was smoking a cigarette, shirtless, wearing some tight joggers or were they jeans? It felt wondrous like I was in the room watching him at the same time I wasn’t. It was his space and his only. He was Adonis, Dumuzid and I was Aphrodite, Inanna. I had my time with him, he would now return to his place, seek a new lover. 

I had an urge to go to him, sit between his thighs and take the damned cigarette from him. If only I had some strength, if only his bed wasn’t so irresistible. My breathing slowed down as I watched the smoke vanish in the humid air, the sound of rain drowning out everything and the night engulfing his relaxed figure, his toned muscles, his picturesque back. 

* * *

Once again my eyes open to find myself alone in bed. The golden morning light from the window stream into the room and warm me further. My mouth feels dry as fuck so I decide to go to the kitchen, maybe find  _ him _ .

My quest to get water barely starts and I am already tripping on the bed sheet around my body(believe me or not but I like to stay modest after a first time. It's too soon to wander in someone's home naked. Also I can't be bothered to wear last night's clothes, I need a fucking shower). I try to find my phone in the mess – do I have time to get more sleep? Should I be heading home? More questions pop in my head – will he ask me to leave? Act all awkward or distant, not knowing how to get rid of me? Or will he offer me breakfast? Does he cook? Was he a coffee person or a tea person? Oh God, what if he's one of those tea-sexual people? Worst he's into protein shakes!

I feel a headache coming from my overthinking. I already had a sore ass. I don't need to do this. 

Beside the alarm clock, I find my phone. It was definitely his doing because I remember leaving it in the pocket of my pants and removing them at his door. A blush creeps up on my face as I remember undressing in front of him last night. I've never been like this...what was it?! I can't explain. It didn't feel like voyeurism…it was just that I stripped naked with the lights on. It has happened before. It's not my first rodeo! But the way he looked at me - not like a body he desired(that's not true. He did desire my body) but something that came close to awe and affection.

I am in my head again. Fuck!

My phone flashes in my hand - 6:34 A.M 

It's so early in the morning. Where could he be?

Once again I resume my quest for water. Hoping to see him on the way. I drag the sheets around as I walk. The flat is lightened by the morning light but I am too distracted to go through the belongings, the furniture, and the decor(he has a few weird-ass paintings lined up on the walls - assuming his own creation. And some photos of friends and his dog. No family pictures. All things kept in the back of mind to inspect later). 

Shivering I finally make it to the small dining space which leads to the kitchen. And I almost miss him. His large body sitting on the floor, shirtless (sadly not pantless...on second thought it would be weird if he sat down in no pants. That would be hella uncomfortable.) with his legs folded and crossed. This big, big man was hiding in a corner where the morning light came through(like a dog my stupid mind provided) and doing breathing practices? Or is it Yoga? I am sure if he was so keen on doing it or if he usually did it, he would have a fucking mat and a place to do it.

He doesn't hear me coming. His mind already drifted off to someplace far.

Is he here because of me? 

No overthinking now, Timmy. Take charge. Let yourself go.

I step towards me, quietly so and kneel on the floor just behind him. His back immediately stiffens. He knows I am here. Taking a breath, I wrap my hands around his shoulders, tucking them around his neck. He smells great like aftershave – vanilla and spice. I wonder if he already bathed? 

"Come back to bed."

Fighting the urge to turn his face around and kiss him, I make do and start nibbling his ear lobe. His sigh of content fills me with relief. I continue giving him pecks and licks on his long neck. Feeling more and more sleepy, I lean on him heavily and he loses balance, giggles while trying to hold me.

"Okay. Okay. Let's Go."

"You have to carry me."

"Sure baby."

He turns around and finds me wrapped up in white, "You look like a burrito." Laughs at my attire, my pout.

"Tasty, you mean?"

"Tasty, it is." He shakes his head. Trying to contain his smile but failing.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What starts with desire, soon transforms into something else. More honey-sweet, thicker and deeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even begin to tell you guys how much I enjoy your comments! I really appreciate every single one of them and it always throws me off that people like the story so much that they write their thoughts about it in the comment section. I am always overwhelmed by the response on each chapter. Just wanted to let you know :)
> 
> P.S. - the story started sometime in October. Now it's been a few weeks so it's winter now. The boys are cozying up in the cold weather.

In a few days, the heat leaves our bodies, temperature drops, the cold shoves us together in a heap of blankets and pillows. A fortress of our own. I have taken residence in his body and I refuse to go anywhere else. I've never wanted someone so much in my life.

Desire shapes us. She carves us up like puzzle pieces. Molds our bodies together. She is cunning in her ways – I don't feel any pain or suffering succumbing to the knife of desire. What starts with desire, soon transforms into something else. More honey-sweet, thicker and deeper. I catch myself caressing his skin when he sleeps, slowly dragging my finger up and down his spine, pressing into the bone, hearing him sigh. I've been keeping a store of information about what he likes and what he doesn't. I've been breathing in his clothes, stealing from his drawer so he doesn't leave me, ever.

All the mundane conversations make me heady with happiness – I would cut my nails and he'll comment, "I am right-handed but for some reason, my left hand works better than my right when I am cutting nails. And while I cut a steak."

While he makes me coffee in the morning — "I like to prepare my own coffee. Do you know you have to have the perfect roast and grind for a coffee depending on your mood? There are so many permutations and combinations! And different types of coffee – Columbian, Sumatra…"

While I snuggle in bed due to the cold — "I was caught in a snowstorm once. With a really beautiful girl. And no, it did not end up like in the movies. She chased me down with an axe because it was my fault that we got stranded and she had to be away from her boyfriend."

While we were bundled up together after a long make-out session, legs tangled, face up close — "I have vivid dreams sometimes that I remember the morning after. I've created so many artworks based on dreams. Normal people see my paintings and think I am such a weirdo and I...i agree. I don't know what's going on inside my mind. Why I imagine something so horrid and terrible all the time. Why I am so interested in everything that is labeled dark and ugly... Still, I put myself out there hoping someone will find meaning to all these images for me. And when no one can, I find myself sitting in front of the painting, trying to decipher it, trying to decipher myself."

He lets me glimpse inside his mind like this. And I am strangely fascinated, sincerely engrossed. Whenever he lets me in, which he does so often that it gives me whiplash, I find myself gazing into his deep sea blue eyes and discovering myself sitting in the corner. Hidden amidst the vibrant colors. I've confessed it to him, how I find myself in him, how I am afraid and elated at the same time. I am you and you are me. What does it all mean?

In the afternoon, with lights surrounding us, nothing to hide behind, he answers in a hushed voice, "You are my reflection and I am yours. We are not each other's halves, nor are we shadows. Just reflections. I can be myself entirely on my own but I need to know myself through your eyes. It's a privilege being seen and to see you, so unabashedly without any filters, without any judgment."

I stopped being afraid from that point onwards.

* * *

Unfortunately, there is a world out there beyond the boundaries of his bed and his flat and I have to fend for myself. Have to get back to work. Have to prove to my friends that I am alive and not stuck in a dungeon being held by some serial killer who uses my phone to text once in a while to avoid suspicion.

I hug the warm coat tightly around my waist. Going for a more orderly look than my usual disheveled demeanor. I don't want to look fucked out in front of my friends who are already forming outlandish stories in their heads. I can't help but think how close their stories come to the truth though. A big, big man holding me hostage in his home – he did tie me to his bed once. 

And that makes me think. Did I really stay that long in his home? Going up only to retrieve clothes. Or it felt extended? Time stretched out like a rubber band, snapping back to propel us into reality.

Ansel, Will and Julian are sitting on the table in the center. I like being the center of attention but not always. I am not up for a round of questioning while everyone else gets to hear my exploits. Or whatever.

They ask as soon as I sit down.

"Where have you been fucker?" Ansel puts it so very eloquently.

"In a sex dungeon. I had a great partner."

That shuts him up for a second. I like the shocked look on his face. He's not one to shy out of conversations about sex but he can be a prude sometimes with gay sex.

"You mean that American dream from the 60s?" He smirks and everyone joins in on the questioning. Being loud in general.

"Oh is he old? Like old,  _ old? _ "

"Dude. No."

"He has an ugly mustache!" Ansel quips.

"Oh fuck off!" I don't know why I am wound up so tight. They are my friends and they're joking. I shouldn't take so much offense. I shouldn't be reacting like this.

"Okay, dude. No need to shout." Will pats me on the back and orders me a coffee. I stop him mid-order, asking the waiter to give me a Sumatra coffee if possible. I like the earthy taste, the hint of acidity, and the strong flavor. 

"Sumatra? When did you become an expert on coffee?" Julian raises an eyebrow.

He made me a different person in a few days. More mindful of what I eat and consume. To have the best experiences and adventures in little things. But Julian's stare makes me uneasy, it makes me feel like I have this heavy weight on my shoulders. 

But then Will is squeezing my shoulder and allowing me to breathe. I look him in the eye and feel calm. Get back to the teasing and relax a little, "And what about it? I am here to teach you fuckers some culture."

"Oh no. You're gonna be like Sally from  _ When Harry met Sally! _ – I want a Sumatra coffee, with sugar on the side and a peach ice cream. But if you don't have the peach ice cream, put the sugar inside the coffee!" Julian shrieks. And oh God, they're being so loud.

"Oh no, please don't have an orgasm here!" Ansel adds.

"Shut up! You assholes." I laugh as they start to fake moan together. Making me blush.

"You have to introduce us to your new boyfriend, you know." The coffee and food arrive as Will casually mentions  _ him. _ I pick up the coffee and sip it – as he said heavenly and buy myself some time.

"We've just started dating though."

"You've been locked in his flat for days, Tim"

"Okay, okay. You guys will meet him. Soon."

And that ends it. We move on to other's lives and industry gossip. Sports and plays, all that jazz.

* * *

He grows his beard. It starts innately. Like someone didn't bother to shave for a few days and now it's a hairy mess... And I like it. I really do. I enjoy running my hands on his stubbly face, watching him flush. It feels ragged under my palm, scratchy like sandpaper. Makes me want to touch his face all the time. 

And I do. Touch him all the time. He melts at my touch. Into a puddle of warm honey – sweet and thick. Endlessly precious.

So over the days, I watch as he moves on with the awkward stubble and mustache phase and into the full weird beard phase. It's...slightly concerning. Only slightly. I mean, I didn't expect him to have this look forever. Even though I was weirdly attached to it. It's just facial hair. It's no big deal…

But to be honest, it does bother me. Why did he have this weird porno mustache all of a sudden? And now, he has decided to move on? Why? I am like my friends and naturally, I think of outlandish ideas – Is he secretly a pornstar? Was he trying out some weird art experiment? Maybe he's a spy trying to hide his identity!

I rule out the last one. The first two really seem like a possibility. I can imagine him trying porn – maybe as a project or something. Maybe he wanted to have some ideas for his art? Artists are weird these days, right? Maybe it's the second option. Or maybe he was just bored with his look and wanted some change...Maybe it's as simple as that. But then why have it for only a month or so…

"Hey! What are you thinking about?"

_ You. _

"Nothing."

He seems distracted himself so he barges on, "Okay, I've been meaning to ask you...would you like to go to a party tonight? My friend's gallery and then his house. We are celebrating his new collection of shoes. I...we always stay here. I think it will be good."

He's red. He's so fucking red. Is it because he thinks I will reject the idea of us going out? Me meeting his friends? 

"I would love to."

"Great! Good! Good...yeah."

I smile at his nervousness. He's so cute and so fucking oblivious about this quality. I hope he stays like this always – the innocence of it all is so charming. He's like a big soft puppy. I love it too much. All thoughts of the mustache forgotten, I jump into his arms and demand a kiss. A thorough make-out session before I leave for another audition on this cold, cold dreary day.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recklessfreakofnature on Tumblr


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay.   
Honestly, it will be awesome if people are still reading this because this is one of the most last minute thing ever lmfao. I never know what I am doing with this.

Toying with his clothes brings another sort of pleasure. The expanse of velvety dark green under my palm, the enormous piece of fabric laid out in front of me(It is even loose on his shoulders, I wonder why he has it), the desire to swim in it and have a day just to myself where he will be reduced to an object of pleasure — it sounds delicious, alluring.

With another glance around the door, I pick the shirt and slip it around my naked shoulder. I slide it down my arms and feel the amorous static. Drowning in his smell and plunging in a pool of desire – it completely envelops me. I let it open – the buttons will have no use for me. The mirror is there in the corner – artfully placed on the ground, slightly tilted. My skinny figure gazes at me. I like what I've done – the hair looks good, disheveled, and falling in my eyes, the open shirt proposing vivid imagination, my pale skin a beautiful contrast to the dark green. I can picture him confessing – the color matches your eyes. He's predictable like that, always compares me to masterpieces, always makes me the art.

I wonder if the meaning of desire changes as one goes through different stages of a relationship — I might have had the wrong idea. Always thought that desire is a flame that starts with a spark and then grows into a blazing fire that consumes one's being, only to slowly ebb away into nothingness. But that's not desire. It's lust. Desire is entirely different — its a wish that once granted transforms into something else. It's an eternal flame that changes color and shape. It burns and strengthens the core of a relationship. 

Like clay hardens when heated over the years, desire is shaped into something more tangible. Thousands of lines of the ode written on it – the epic tale of two lovers that withstood the test of time. Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Amidst the forest. In the city. And somewhere within the subterranean. 

There's no strategy per se. I am not planning on doing anything. Just want to lay around, enjoy his heated apartment, overthink a little about meeting his friends, and talking to new people in general. 

It's hard to imagine us as a couple. I don't want to be labeled like that – don't want to strut around claiming possession of his being. As much as I have clawed away his time, I don't want to be hovering over him all the time. Don't want to appear needy. Lots of don'ts. What I do want, is to dissolve in his life – not a separate entity, not someone who needs to be distinguished, paraded around, and endorsed as a lover. I want to walk in a room, feel everyone else's eyes on me as I press a small kiss on his cheek, mumble something in his ear and be on my way. I want people to notice how we orbit around each other, how we stop when our paths cross, knowing full well all the calculations that will finally lead us back to each other. 

"You're gonna hurt yourself with all the thinking." Somewhere in the house, he was lost trying to find wrapping paper for a gift – I am not sure what it is.

"I am not overthinking."

"Don't lie to me." His eyes slide down my body. The open invitation. I decide I will not be  _ still life _ for him today, I will be  _ performative art _ . Unhurriedly I walk towards his couch and deliberately sway on the spot. Run my hands down the side and take my time to sit down. I pull my feet up and spread them on the couch, grab a cushion, and push it under my head. Breathing heavily, I do the final act of pushing my black jeans down – just a little so that it loosely sits on my hips. 

My whole torso with his silky shirt is on display. If I were more cruel, I would start caressing my neck, playing with my nipples, or trailing my hands down my pants.

But who am I kidding? I am cruel. I have decided to perform. 

Eyes trained on him, I eagerly chase my pleasure. 

"Timmy."

"You don't get to touch."

"You want me to watch? Can I touch myself?"

I grip my cock. I won't pull it out just now. Watching him wait for my command and getting impatient is everything – his mouth set in a straight line, his hands clutching the armrest, his eyes dark as the cloudless night sky. He can make me succumb. So easily. But he won't, I know it and he knows it and that's what makes it delicious.

"No. You won't touch yourself. Not until I come."

He releases the death grip on the armrest and I spring up on my elbows, thinking this it, he won't wait. But then he's sitting on the armrest, folding my legs so no part of our bodies are touching. My heart is still racing – for a second I thought he will make me surrender to his touch.

"Go on." It's a command.

I take my cock out and give it a few tugs. My attention is elsewhere. I wonder if I just offered him control on a platter. My heart beats loudly as I gauge the contrast between us – he looks calm and composed with his body still while I squirm to get comfortable. His hands tell a different story though – they are in constant motion – caressing the wrist tattoo, thumbing the palm, drawing circles on the junction between the thumb and the forefinger. It's embarrassing how I could come just from this. My hands work harder, now chasing the high. I can't stop making noises – I gasp and swear, moan and inhale loudly. Trying to act cool doesn't work. I am on display. Completely at his mercy.

Don't know how long I could draw it out. Going by the smirk on his face, he knows it too. I am close – can feel it coming. My body tightens, toes curl unwillingly on the couch, my head involuntarily lifts off of the pillow, body curving towards a release. 

"Fuck!"

The couch beneath feels so good. My body melts into the shirt, the sweat-soaked skin makes it more mine than his. I would like to stay here forever if he let me...A minute later, I hear his voice.

"We have to go Tim." It's so fucking soft and low that I could have completely missed it if I wasn't so wrapped up in him. Always, always hyperconscious of his voice.

"I can help." I offer while trying to stand up. God, it really felt good.

I almost stumble and fall but he catches me by the waist and I can't do anything but stare up at him. Fuck he looks so gorgeous with a full beard. Exponentially soft and fluffy. Absolutely huggable. So I do the most logical thing – I cling to him and nuzzle my face in his neck. His laugh rumbles through my body. I cling further and notice that he's half hard. Bitting his neck, I palm his clothed cock.

"Timmy." I don't know if it is a warning or a pleading – I can't stop. He gets impatient and tugs his belt away, unbuttons his pants.

Fuck finally.

Half an hour later we are finally dressed, ready to go out. I found another shirt of his – it's cheesy I know, wearing the boyfriend shirt but nothing's stopping me. I tuck it nicely and wear my favorite pink trousers – it goes well with the loose white shirt (though I like the dark green shirt better. I can imagine going to the party wearing it, imagine people smelling my orgasm on it – sounds like an atrocious fantasy that only I could think of. Wonder if I should share it with him — under that soft, shy persona, I know he's a kinky fucker.)

He hands me the gift while he locks the door and I question what it is. Ask if I should have brought something from my end. He says no it's just a party for a friend. He likes giving gifts and it's something tailor-made for one of his bests so it doesn't matter. 

As if we go out he asks me if I would like to hold hands.

I reply, "As if wearing your shirt isn't a statement enough."

"So you don't want to?"

"Please as if I would ever miss the opportunity." I scuff and hold his large hand in mine. Allowing his warmth and excitement to seep into me.

  
  


_ TBC _


End file.
